


And it is as it is and we take as we find

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: A bit of football of course, Auroras, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, M/M, Nature, Sea imagery, holiday feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 21:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: The lights shine and dance and make shapes. The sky breathes, softly, with these colours. It remains there, in a state of pure, perfect grace. Just for them, it seems. Like sunlight in the ice, like these millions of stars, up there, by the open sea.A moment, suspended in time, in the here and the now.





	And it is as it is and we take as we find

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a wonderful prompt by @acutewinnipegosis: "The northern lights have seen strange sights.” Also, some of [these great prompts](http://lafiametta.tumblr.com/post/180601502717/alright-terror-fandom-weve-got-a-bit-of-a-benjo) may or may have not crept into the story! ;)

As surely as the countdown begins our time is not our own;  
already there's the breath of the wind which bleaches bare the bones  
of the deadlines we set, of the jokes we don't get  
and forgetfulness that furrows the brow...  
no, I'll never find a better time  
to be alive than now.

\- [A better time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qWP4bnPkteg) (Peter Hammill).

*

They are here, and the stars are loud.

They are here. Here, in this world outside, this quiet world of deep blues and sharp whites. Here, in this moment. A bit like the snow, suspended in time, in the here and the now. Out here, they walk, these unknown steps in this place somewhere beyond. Out here, with the breath of the wind and the waves. Here, where the ice has its own pulse, its own heartbeat. And here, where the sea is bigger than them, bigger than everything else. Free and unbound, it goes on forever, fading into blue, grey and black, fading far away where it meets the sky.

And the men are saying _Look at the sky. Look up! Look at the lights._

The lights, odd like magic lanterns, like flickering flames. Up there, green and red and yellow, all these colours, cold but alive, so alive that they almost burn. There, all these misplaced colours, colours that should belong somewhere else. With them, they bring a beauty that feels real, like blood, like bone. Dark and deep, a bit like fear. Like life itself. It should be almost unnatural, but not here. Not here, not out here, when they are all walking blind, walking on water, almost like in a dream.

He looks up, and he sees shapes and faces, up in this northern sky. These are the ghosts that they might become. And it makes him feel small. The sea pulls and tugs at his hands, and it makes a raw, open wound. It speaks in a language that he doesn't fully understand. There is something hidden here, in this abyss, in this frozen place. And this is not a dream. No, it is too cold for that. Here, they can't be sure of anything, and they might want to give up. 

But not yet. 

No, not yet. The cold helps him to remember. The cold brings him back. He has no words for _this_ , but maybe he can write. Maybe he can spell it out, so that it won't be lost. So that it will mean something, here, out here in the night.

And then Harry finds him and takes his hand, tracing quiet, invisible lines on his palm. His hands are rough, but they guard his heart, they keep him safe. He lays his head on his shoulder, and he is light as a feather. He is warm and kind, like the smile and the rain and the sleep in his eyes. Like the forgotten words he learnt to write, in the ports and passageways, in the last pages of his old notebook, long before he learnt his own name.

He feels the cold, but above all things, he feels his heartbeat. And he is back, back in this place. Right here. Here, with him, in this little world out here, wide and sparkling gold, like a child's fairy tale. Here, in this little nest of blankets and whispers and huddled hope. Perhaps there is a corner of earth or ice or sky that isn't cruel. Perhaps they can find that shore and sleep there, with the wind and the tide, with the silence and the storm.

These are strange lights. Unexpected. A bit like them, perhaps, out here, in the open sea. Here, where they have nothing, but they still have each other, just like a compass. Here, where this comfortable, familiar love writes his name and spells out these messages, to stay here forever, like the birds, like the waves. Here, where they can lie back and look up at the sky, close together, with fingers entwined. Here, in his arms, a star right by his heart, held light, like a dream. Trembling with this bright, quiet joy, with the tenderness and honesty of being seen, of simply _being._

There is so much he doesn't understand. But he feels. He feels _it_. This love, crystal clear, like the soul of the sea. It has always been a little miracle, the both of them, like this. Never, never wrong. This is what it means. Here, the past and the future no longer exist. No _why_ , no _when_. Only _this._

And this is how they make it through the night.

And the men shout and call out and kick a ball around, and they touch the snow and the ice with a sort of childlike wonder, and they laugh and laugh and laugh. And someone is singing, and here it becomes a rare, precious gift. Here, as close as _this,_ in this place where they can belong. And yes, the stars are loud, loud like his heart, like his love. The world is sharp and green and blue and so, so wide. It is all lighted up with a sleepy, comfortable hue. Like Christmas, when he was a boy. Like that day, like that first day when they found each other. Like happiness.

And he won't forget this.

The lights shine and dance and make shapes. The sky breathes, softly, with these colours. It remains there, in a state of pure, perfect grace. Just for them, it seems. Like sunlight in the ice, like these millions of stars, up there, by the open sea. Unusual, but just right. Just like them, cradled close, right here. If he goes to sleep now, it is alright. It is safe, almost easy, to leave the world and the sea and the sky behind. To walk blind, but walk in faith, to walk in water, and walk in love. And to follow that flame, that little flame within, like a rare bird, like hope. To follow it wherever it should go, and find the dreams and the answers. To find him, his loved one, to keep him in his heart.

This is how it is. Here is the world, and they still have _this_. This love, alive, like snow, like the tongues of angels. And there is no better time to hold on to it than now. He feels the sea above and below, forever, like an embrace. He closes his eyes, and yes, he can sleep here. Here, out here, he is not alone. Under the glittering lights, he dreams of these hands, these quiet words. Alive, right now, right _now_.


End file.
